Pretty Boy Front Man
by Sueg5123
Summary: Under Kendra's pitying expression, Jim squared his shoulders and headed in the direction of Mac's office, his chest already constricting at the thought of having to tell her Will's plane was missing.


**Pretty Boy Front Man**

**A/N**: Big shout-out to LilacMermaid who graciously helped me out of a technical jam with a previous story. The title to this is borrowed from a song in Jonathan Larson's _Rent_.

**Disclaimer**: It should go without saying, but I'll say it anyway: I have no ownership of _Rent_ or _The Newsroom_.

oooo

It started with a roll of the eyes.

Maggie was reacting to Jim's memory of MREs. He had just described them as Soylent Green, with the occasional bright spot of a package of Skittles or M&Ms.

They were in the conference room, waiting for the staff to assemble for the 2 o'clock rundown.

"You'd probably look at them differently if you had been in Uganda," Maggie ragged. "I thought they were pretty tasty. Especially the ravioli."

"'Menu J,'" Gary grinned. "Pot roast or chicken fajitas." He looked around and shrugged at the absence of other votes. "Beat the hell out of fresh goat and manioc root."

"Goat isn't that bad," Mac deadpanned, looking up from her pad. "Depends on the preparation."

Elliot, who happened to also be sitting in, said, "I would have loved a nice homey MRE in Cairo. The riots kept all the food service staff away from the hotel and I spent two days on nothing but Cheetos from a vending machine."

Will McAvoy sat through the conversation with growing annoyance. Finally, he stood and slammed his folio shut. "Mac, when we're ready for a rundown meeting, send someone to get me." And he stalked from the room.

oooo

"Syria? C'mon – _Syria_?" Charlie Skinner looked incredulous. "What's got into you, Will? No way Leona's gonna let her on-air talent go to fucking Syria. What the hell would you broadcast, anyway? '_Bombs are falling now._ _The Syrian government is shooting at me_?'" He shook his head. "You're out of your fucking mind. That's not your kind of story anyway. Now, let me suggest—"

"Whaddya mean that's not my kind of story? I can do stories from dangerous places, from war zones—"

Frowning, Charlie seemed to catch the thought as it was still in the air. "Is that what this is about? You think you need to broadcast from a _dangerous_ place in order to have credibility?" He shook his head. "Will, that's stupid and sophomoric – and vaguely suicidal, for you. Trust me, I've been there and—"

"That's the thing," Will snapped. "_You've_ been there. "Elliot, Mac, Jim, Gary – hell, even _Maggie_ has been under fire! Neal was in the Tube when it was bombed; I think he had to mind more than just a gap. They've all been there. Everyone's had some experience under fire except me."

"So something – or someone – has got you thinking that you need to do a story from a war zone? For what – credibility? No matter. Don't you remember Dan Rather's piece from Afghanistan in the '90s, him in robes, looking like fucking Lawrence of Arabia? Serious newsmen howled. You don't need that kind of credibility, Will."

Will didn't look mollified. "Give me something, Charlie. Help me to not look like a posturing idiot sitting at a desk—"

"You'd look like a posturing idiot for sure if you went to Syria." Charlie turned away to splash more bourbon in his ACN coffee mug. "Jesus Christ, man. What put this idiotic idea into your head?" He shook his head and sat on the edge of his desk. "Now, if you want to be serious and practical for a moment – Reese and I were just talking yesterday about you taking a trip. You know you're contractually obligated to a certain amount of promotion for the show..."

Will began to sink down in his chair.

"…so, we were thinking about a little road trip. Mend some fences in the heartland, shake a few hands, make the independent affiliates feel the love…."

"Charlie—"

"Will, we may not like it, but this business compels a certain amount of… well, _business_. You've done this before—"

"You want me to hit the cocktail circuit," Will said sourly. "Pose for the pictures. Grip-and-grins with local sponsors. Film the interminable promos with the local news desk jockeys whose names are always one syllable—"

"_Your_ name is one syllable-" Charlie added, punctuating it with a swallow of bourbon. He shrugged. "C'mon, Will. This isn't new. You've done this before. The ugly, seamy side of broadcast news."

Will winced. "I'd just hoped –"

Charlie interrupted again. "She's made you aspire to something higher. All that Fourth Estate bullshit." He shook his head and took another drink. "That's all good stuff. Noble." He sighed. "But there are a few realities at stake here. Like it or not, 'American Taliban' was widely perceived as a shot over the bow of the heartland, and we need to reassure some of the independents that we haven't completely jumped off the deep end into Olbermann territory." Charlie returned to the chair behind his desk. "Will, I've got to insist on this. We've got a list of seven mid-west affiliates. You're leaving Monday—"

"Shit, Charlie!

Charlie held up a hand to quiet the other man. "This will be as comfortable as we can make it for you. Reese is arranging private air and there will be a car and driver at every stop. If you want to add a few days in Lincoln to visit family, that's okay. Pick anyone you want in the newsroom to travel with you as assistant and go-fer. Elliot will join you on the last night in Kansas City. You can be home by Friday."

Will shook his head. "Fuck, Charlie. Murrow never had to do this shit."

"Sometimes you have to take one for the team."

"Seriously?" Will's eyebrows shot up.

"Murrow had the Blitz. You have meet-and-greets." Charlie shrugged again and poured more bourbon. "Not that different, when you think about it."

oooo

"You weren't going to tell me you're out next week?" Mac accused as she stormed into Will's office. "Charlie just told me he's bringing Jane Barrow up for the week." She looked heavenward. "Shoot me now." Then, training her gaze back upon Will, she said, "This seems awfully sudden. Is there subtext I should know about?"

Will stopped what he'd been doing, shoving his laptop into a briefcase. "For subtext, talk to Reese and Charlie. Mac, if you think I'm a happy participant in this—"

"And you're taking Martin with you?"

"I need somebody to run interference. Make sure my bag gets to the hotel room. Keep my scotch topped off at the damned cocktail parties." He zipped the case closed. "Figured Jennifer would be a problem for HR. Martin and I seemed like the two most expendable staffers."

She tilted her head in momentary confusion. "That's a strange turn of phrase, Will. What do you mean, 'expendable'?"

He sighed. "Look, the timing is shitty and I'm not happy about having to go. But I am contractually bound to a certain amount of promotion effort for the show. Plus, Charlie's right that _American Taliban_ may have alienated a large swath of the mid-west. We need to reclaim those viewers, or at least mitigate the damage. If I have to shake a few hands and spread some affability, then so be it."

"The logic of it doesn't mean I can't still be pissed. And the only thing worse than you not being at your desk is having Jane there instead."

He gave a lopsided grin. "A little suffering is good for the soul, Mac. Anyway, I'm not sure you'll have it worse than me. Although Reese does seem to be taking pains to make it comfortable."

"Not sure I like the idea of small aircraft either," she fretted.

"It'll be fine. I'm not planning to go all Buddy Holly on you." He paused. "Mac, when I get back, we probably ought to talk about a few things. You know that Nina Howard is out of the picture now."

"I heard that through back channels – Tony Hart to Don to Sloan to me."

"That's more like jungle drums than a back channel. Regardless, I think we're almost—uh, let's not go into this now. We'll talk when I get back, okay?"

"Talk about _what_?"

"_When_ _I get back_," he repeated. "Wait another week. That's all."

oooo

The following Thursday afternoon, Kendra heard the ping and glanced up at the iNews alert, bored disinterest turning to keen focus in seconds. She reached for Jim's arm to silently bring it to his attention. Jim registered the information, then barked, "Maggie, go find Charlie Skinner and bring him to Mac's office. Now!"

Under Kendra's pitying expression, Jim squared his shoulders and headed in the direction of Mac's office, his chest already constricting at the thought of having to tell her Will's plane was missing.

Fortunately, Charlie had been in the corridor outside the News Night control room so Maggie found him quickly and he lagged Jim mere seconds in reaching Mac's door. Jim whispered the news to Charlie, who winced and drew back. "No."

They entered Mac's office together.

Mac looked up at them. "Jim, I've moved Jay Carney to the B block; we really need to lead with Syria and the U.N." She capped her omnipresent highlighter. "Come to watch the show from Control, Charlie?"

"Mac, I need you upstairs, now. Jim, you need to take the show tonight." Charlie's face was a grim mask.

She looked between the two of them with open exasperation. "We're on in 15 minutes," she protested. "Jane isn't going to like the last minute change of EP."

"Jim, if Jane gives you any static go to dead air. Mac, we've got something breaking and I need you with me right now." Then, turning back to Jim, he said, "Get someone on the phones, someone discreet. Quiet inquiries. Very quiet." He mouthed, _NTSB_. "And send Don and Elliot to me. If this is going to break, they're going to do it, not Jane Barrow."

Jim nodded. "I'll put Kendra on it. She was the one who found it."

At that moment Neal burst into the office, eyes bulging and holding his cell phone. "ABC is tweeting that—" He stopped at the look he got from Jim.

"Hurry, man," Charlie urged Jim. "We have to get ahead of this."

"What the hell is going on, Charlie?"

"C'mon, Mac. You're with me now." Charlie grabbed her by the elbow and propelled her out of the office and to the bank of elevators.

Mac's exasperation was replaced with open puzzlement by the time they reached Charlie's office. He paused outside to deliver instructions to Millie – _hold all calls except from Jim Harper or the Lansings, send Keefer and Hirsch in immediately, have security send a man up_ – before guiding Mac to a chair.

"Charlie, tell me what's happening. I –"

"Will's plane sent a mayday over southwestern Missouri. It's fallen off the radar. We don't know anything else."

Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes big and bright.

"I didn't bring you up here for a wake, Mackenzie," Charlie said slowly, pushing a tumbler with an inch of bourbon toward her. "We don't know what's happened. No weather to speak of. Probably just some screw up with the radio or the transponder. Probably landed in a fucking wheat field and they're trying to hitchhike to town." He nodded at the glass. "Drink that." While she complied, he used the remote to turn on the flatscreen monitor across the room. He immediately muted Jane's voice.

Don and Elliot pushed into the room.

"What's up, Charlie? Millie said it was urgent." Don noticed Mac sitting with a stricken look on her face. He looked to Elliot than back to Charlie.

"There's an iNews alert about a small plane missing over Missouri."

Elliot realized the import first. "Will?"

"We don't know. We don't know anything. Jim's got someone making calls, but I want this story quarantined until we can find out what's going on."

Mac pulled out her Blackberry and pushed keys.

"Don't do that, Mac," Charlie said, lifting the phone from her hands. "We are not going to work ourselves into a lather based on whether he forgot to turn his phone back on when they landed." He dropped her phone into his center desk drawer.

Elliot tried to inconspicuously slip his own phone back into his pocket. If Charlie was confiscating phones, this was not the moment to advertise his.

"So, what can we do?" Don asked, expectantly.

"You three are going to wait right here for the time being. I need to speak to Leona or Reese."

oooo

Without losing consciousness, Will's mind wandered. Jumbled, disconnected thoughts.

_Tulsa had been unseasonably warm._

_The local anchors had been hospitable and he'd tried to be gracious in return. Even when the incredibly telegenic meteorologist persisted in trying to give Will her phone number. He did the morning show, the noontime show, and taped sounds bites for the local late news._

_Spread the affability._

_At the restaurant last night, the local sponsors had been loud and the food had been good, but the drinks were weak and warm. Thank God for the hotel mini-bar._

_This afternoon, on the way to the airport, Martin had forgotten Will's briefcase in the car and had to chase after the driver on foot to retrieve it._

_Then. Sometime later. A sudden pop inside the plane and the pilot making a terse announcement._

_What had he said?_

_How Mackenzie looked when he left… _

Will's eyes opened.

He was suspended in his seat belt, pitched awkwardly face first as a result of the plane's attitude. His hands fumbled to release the belt and he dropped several inches with a grunt before catching himself.

To his left, Martin was slumped against the window, unmoving.

It was evident that the plane was down. He didn't remember a landing. He didn't remember a crash, either, but things were not as they should be. The cabin was intact, despite the disarray of the contents. Will's iPad screen was shattered and the glass was all over him. He tried to shift to a position more compatible with the angle of the plane's interior.

Reaching across the narrow aisle, he grabbed at Martin's hand. It was warm and there was a pulse.

He heard a low groan from up forward. He clambered up, unable to stand fully erect in the small cabin, and braced himself on the aircraft's bulkheads and seats as he inched forward. Despite the incline, the plane seemed stable. As he passed an inset emergency equipment bay, he pulled out the flashlight. Shadows were lengthening and it would be dark soon.

The door to the cockpit was ajar and he nudged it open. A tree branch seemed to be growing inside the cockpit. The pilot's white shirt was spotted with blood. A fine spray of red seemed to coat all the instruments and the front windscreen had been shattered.

Will reached for the pilot's seat belt assembly and tried to release it, but it was different than the ones passengers used and it took him a few moments to figure it out. He tried to gauge how badly injured the other man was.

The pilot's eyes fluttered open.

"Good job getting us down, man," Will breathed. "Are you injured – can I move you-?"

"I can't feel my leg…"

"Okay, okay," Will soothed. "I'm going to have a look." There wasn't much space to maneuver in in the cramped cockpit area. "While I do, can you tell me what happened?"

"Bird strike."

"A fucking bird did this?" Will looked around for a carcass.

"Coming down did this," the pilot breathed, inclining his head at the windscreen. "The bird went up the intake and fouled the engine. I was able to glide a bit and that gave us a softer landing."

Will took off his jacket and draped it over the pilot's torso. Then he squeezed as far forward as he could, and angled his flashlight down. The pilot's right leg was jammed under fallen electronics panels and bright crimson blood was dripping onto the rubber mat below.

"Does the radio work?"

"Don't know since we hit. Got off a distress call, though."

"Good." Will pulled back to the door. "I'll need help to get you free. Let me see if Martin's awake yet. While I'm with him, I need you to try the radio, okay?" Will clapped a hand on the other man's shoulder and turned to the rear of the plane.

"McAvoy, there's a first aid kit in the galley. And we probably ought to see if we can open the cabin door…"

Will swung back through the cabin, fighting the upward pitch of the floor.

"Martin?" Will gently shook the younger man. "Martin, come on, wake up."

Seconds went by and Will became more insistent. "Martin?"

The younger man's eyes finally snapped open and darted around. He turned to Will, grimacing as he did so, and Will could make out a discoloration to Martin's left eye.

"You've got a shiner. How do you feel?"

Martin shook his head, but said nothing, which began to worry Will. He fell back to a routine he'd seen only in movies. "How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked, his index finger twelve inches from Martin's nose.

"Twenty five."

"Wise-ass," Will snorted, more than a little relieved.

"I'm okay. Well – I'm okay enough. What happened?"

"Pilot tells me it was a bird strike." Will unfastened the seatbelt and caught Martin as he slipped forward. "If you're okay, I'm gonna need your help up front. George is conscious but his leg is seriously messed up." He paused. "I want you to try to sit up, stand if you can. If you get dizzy, just plop back down in your seat."

Martin nodded. Leaning heavily on the seatback in front of him, he dragged himself into a crouch. "I'm okay."

"You're weaving."

"Give me a minute, I'll be fine." He frowned, the headache setting in in earnest now. "We're on the ground—"

Will looked out the tiny window but saw only darkness. "Yeah, somewhere. Doesn't seem to be a populated somewhere, though."

Martin produced his phone and turned it on. "Let's see if we have any bars. Shit."

oooo

Jim phoned Charlie during the break between B and C blocks. "We've got confirmation from NTSB that the plane sent a distress call. And the ABC affiliate in Joplin is reporting an eyewitness seeing a plane in trouble at dusk. We talked to the Tulsa airport and Will was on the passenger manifest; so was Martin. But, so far, no one has reported that connection. The pilot was flying VFR so he didn't have to file a flight plan – "

Charlie swore, risking the immediate attention of the others in his office.

"I was just going to say, the pilot didn't _have_ to file one, but he _did_."

"That's a break for us."

"Yeah, but it's after dark. No one's reported seeing flames—and that's not only a _good_ thing, by the way, but it's significant. It means the plane may have survived the impact. But it may take until morning to pinpoint a crash site."

Charlie heard Mac's phone vibrate in his drawer and opened it to look.

_Nina Howard calling. _

_Fuck_.

He closed the drawer, and, noticing Mac staring hopefully at him, mouthed, "Wrong number." Then, back into the receiver with Jim, he said, "I want you down here on your next break. Either hand Jane off to someone else, or throw early to Terry Smith. Got it?"

"Roger that."

Across from Charlie, Mac was preternaturally quiet.

"There's news. Some of it is good." She seemed to sag and Don moved behind, lightly laying a hand on her shoulder. Charlie continued. "Will was on the pax manifest. But the pilot filed a flight plan, so they know where to look.

Charlie turned to Don and Elliot and sighed heavily. "We've got to lead with it. It's morbid, but we've got to lead with it. Just what we know."

"Will's name?" Elliot's eyebrows were raised and his head tilted.

"Yeah," Charlie swallowed. "But just what we've confirmed. No speculation. And, Don, get a hold of Robin in HR, and have her make a call to Martin's family, just to warn them."

"I'll do it. I mean, I'll make the call myself." He cleared his throat. "Will's family?"

"We are Will's family."

Don nodded.

Mac rose from the chair and her voice seemed pitched higher than normal. "I can't hear this right now. I just can't hear _him_ – _them_," she amended quickly, "—talked about as if they belong in A or B block, before the commercial break or after—" She shook off Don's restraining hand.

"Mackenzie, you listen to me." Charlie's eyebrows knit together and he looked sterner than Elliot could ever recall. "You know this is a story we have to report."

"We're the only ones who know it's _him_…"

"Right now. That passenger manifest is a public document and some young stringer at the Joplin ABC affiliate is about to make his career when he brings this to light." He came around his desk and took her hand in his. "We have to run with this so that we can control it, Mac."

Jim burst into the room. "Terry Smith was available so I threw to her. Jane was pissed. She's gonna tell you to fire me."

"Cold day in hell. Jim, I just told these two they've got to lead with it."

Jim understood. "Top of the hour, or next break?"

Charlie hesitated, weighing the choice. "Next break." He looked at Don and Elliot as they dashed out. "I'm sorry, Mac."

Jim went to Mac and pulled her in for a gentle hug. ""Don't start grieving. We don't know what's happened, everything may be okay—"

"We know that Will and Martin were on the plane. And the plane is missing or down or _just_ _gone_, whatever you call it." The sarcasm left her voice. "What the fuck could be worse than this?"

Charlie's desk phone buzzed. "Leona."

"Is McMac with you?"

"She is." Charlie's eyes lighted on Mac.

"I want the two of you on the 45th floor right now. We've got a ride to the airport."

Charlie bolted upright. "You've heard something—"

"No. And that's because I watch high-minded ACN. I'd probably know more if I watched CNN or CBS." She snorted. "You and McHale get up here now. The AWM chopper is leaving in minutes for LaGuardia. This is everyone's lucky day. Reese just returned from DC and our jet is making a hot turnaround for us."

"Where?"

"We're going to fetch our boy, from whatever cornfield he fell into."

Charlie jumped to his feet and Mac warily rose with him. "Come on, Mac. Leona's got a helicopter for us to catch."

Jim caught the other man's elbow and dropped his voice. "Charlie, should I pull the – tape of, _you know_-?"

Charlie took several seconds to register Jim's meaning. Jim was referring to the obits typically pre-prepared for statesmen and celebrities, and Charlie's breath caught with surprise to realize that, _of course_, Will's obituary had been prepared years earlier, when he'd achieved a certain rank in both the industry and in popular culture. Will McAvoy's obituary was already waiting somewhere in the ACN files.

"No! Hell, no," he said, horrified. "And don't you let anyone else think about that either!" He reached to propel Mac from the room, still muttering. "What the _fuck_!"

oooo

Martin was too dizzy to attempt crawling forward in the cockpit, so Will stationed him behind the pilot with orders to lift when he gave the signal. Will, meanwhile, had to stretch and contort himself to reach the panel. Light was a problem; the emergency lights were dim and sunlight was gone now, and he wasn't able to balance the flashlight and lift simultaneously. Finally, he rolled the flashlight away and just felt around in the dark.

"I think I've got it now. You with me, Martin?"

"I'm here," came a weak voice.

"Okay, lift on the count of three. One—" Will braced his good knee against the bulkhead and placed both hands under the control panel. "Two." He strained to lift the panel. "Three," he grunted. "Hurry!" He could feel his grip faltering under the weight.

"Got him!" Martin yelled. In truth, he hadn't moved the unconscious pilot very far, just tugged him enough to get him free. The effort made him nauseous and dizzy again.

Will switched places with Martin, and together they dragged the man aft, stretching him out on the floor and elevating his leg. Martin rifled through his bag and found his jacket. He held it out to Will, explaining apologetically, "For George. I'd put it on him but I get dizzy when I bend down."

"I'll take care of it. Go close your eyes for a little bit."

Recovering the flashlight, Will pulled the jacket across the pilot. He was more concerned about shock than the cool early autumn night. There had been a lot of blood lost up forward, he knew; the floor of the cockpit had been slick with it. He reached for the first aid kit, hoping to find something more substantial than mercurochrome and band-aids.

Later, as Will was wrapping a dressing and rolling gauze over the deepest puncture wound, the pilot stirred and wet his lips.

"I'm sorry, I don't have anything to give you for the pain," Will said.

"Doesn't hurt that much now, to tell you the truth. Just kind of a tingle. A lot better than with that box of electronics sitting on it."

"Were you able to check the radio?"

"Not even a crackle. But I'm sure the distress call got out."

"Okay." Will pushed himself back to his feet. "I'm going to try the cabin door now."

oooo

Three hours later, the AWM jet taxied across the dark and nearly deserted Joplin Regional Airport. Leona's phone lit up first.

"Ha! I knew it! All three alive! They're at the hospital."

Mackenzie exhaled and dropped her head against the plane's window.

"Any mention of injuries?" Charlie was scanning his own phone for updates.

"A compound fracture. A concussion. Lacerations." Leona looked over to Mac. "I don't know who has what. But they're alive and the injuries sound minor. Given the circumstances," she added.

Reese yawned. "I'll work on getting some accommodations. I've been on planes all damn day and I am ready to get off."

"You okay?" Charlie gave Mac's hand a squeeze.

She turned to him and gave a quick nod. "Relieved," she whispered.

_Incredibly, immeasurably relieved._

oooo

Like the airport, the hospital too seemed mostly quiet and empty in the early morning hours. Leona, Reese, Charlie, and a silent Mackenzie were directed to the ER.

Charlie gestured to open bay at the end of the corridor, where Will could be seen sitting on the edge of an exam table. He was holding something to his head. "I see him. He looks fine!" He began to follow the Lansings.

Mac hesitated. "I'll join you in a bit. I need a moment," she said, trying to compose herself.

Turning, Charlie gave her a tight smile and sympathetic dark eyes. "I understand. But don't be too long. He'll be wanting to see you."

She swallowed. "Yeah. I just don't know what we're going to say to each other, though."

Leona and Reese greeted their ambulatory anchor with genuine gladness before leaving to make inquiries of the ER physician attending the others.

Charlie Skinner crossed his arms on his chest and smirked. "You won't be disappointed if we cancel the last stop on the tour?"

"Seriously?"

"Elliot's refusing to fly with you. He thinks you might be a Jonah."

Will shook his head. "Just tell me I wasn't a headline tonight."

"You know the saying: if it bleeds, it leads." Charlie put his hands on Will's shoulders. "So glad to see you, son. I ought to go check on Martin. And there's someone else waiting to see you—" He inclined his head. "Take it easy on her. She's had a rough night."

When Mackenzie finally came over, Will's eyes moved up without actually looking up. He had a way of ducking his head and crinkling his eyes, something reminiscent of a bashful boy child, and she hadn't seen that expression in years.

She put her hand on his forearm, unsure how he would take it if she touched him the way her heart was telling her. "You gave me a fright."

"Sorry." He dropped the ice pack from where he'd been holding it against his forehead, revealing a deep gash that started an inch above his right eyebrow and trailed upward into his hairline. It still oozed a little blood.

She gasped. "Oh, Billy. What happened? From the impact?"

He gave a short bark of a laugh. "Nothing heroic. The cabin door didn't want to open and I forced it. When I did, I fell coming out of the plane."

"Coming out was heroic... to me."

He replaced the cold pack on the wound. "Thanks for coming, Mac."

"Mrs. Lansing was rather insistent that I come."

"She's perceptive. You don't get to be Leona Lansing if you haven't perception."

"She's flying us home, you know. Tomorrow morning."

He sighed. "Martin needs to be seen by a neurologist. Just to make sure. He hit his head pretty hard on the impact."

She nodded once. "We'll take care of him. He was lucky to have you with him."

"Hell, I was lucky to have _him_. And George. He did a great job setting us down. He couldn't have prevented what happened. His leg is pretty messed up. Thought I was going to ralph when I first saw it."

"But you didn't."

"No." His shy smile seemed to turn bitter. "This is the disconnect, Mac. This is what's fucking with my head right now. Martin has a bad concussion – the pilot who saved our plane has a compound fracture of the leg - and Leona has some kind of –_ologist_ on hot stand-by for _me_ back in New York. To minimize scarring." He dropped the cold pack again and shook his head. "Pretty boy front man."

"I won't deny the pretty boy part holds some attraction for me." She positioned herself between his knees. "But I don't think anyone would take issue with the front man part. What were your words to Sloan last year - _right next to and in front_. From what I've heard tonight, you were right next to Martin and that pilot. And slightly in front." She leaned in and touched her lips to his cheek. "We like having you as our front man, Billy."

"Don't let up on me Mac. I don't want to be just the face that matches the suit."

"You aren't. You're always more."

oooo

Maggie couldn't help herself: when she saw Will cross the bullpen floor the following Monday, she latched around him.

"Okay, thanks, Maggie," he muttered, embarrassed and peeling her arms from his chest.

And when Will entered the rundown meeting, the staff banter died instantly. Martin struggled to his feet, and Jim reached an outstretched hand to Will. "Glad you're back, man."

"Thanks." Will nodded to Martin. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Martin laughed.

"You gonna go on air tonight?" Gary asked, gesturing to the tiny sutures and small shaved portion of Will's hairline.

"Sure." Will swung into his usual chair. "Trying to cultivate a rugged look."

Across the table Mackenzie smiled and flipped open her folio. "Now, if everyone has finished with The Man Who Fell from Grace with the Sky, we have a show in six hours and two empty blocks to fill."


End file.
